I'm with Michelle on this

Share current article via Email Share current article via Facebook Share current article via Twitter Share current article via LinkedIn Empty-nesting has been the most blissful period of my adult years, says the writer. Stock photo: Story audio is generated using AI Today marks 224 days since the missus and I officially became empty nesters. It has been the most blissful period of my adult years. And no, I do not miss having them kids around; it's been a long three-decade slog. To quote Michelle Obama, 'I'm good.' At least this was her response to Jon Stewart, the part-time host of The Daily Show, when he casually inquired whether she missed the parenting rigmarole with daughters Malia and Sasha. That innocuous response during an episode of her IMO podcast last week sparked a ton of controversy she couldn't have foreseen. All manner of lunatic right-wing wombats crawled out from under rocks and descended upon her like squirrels on a maple syrup spillage. Republican Party California delegate Elizabeth Barcohana told Fox News that Obama's remarks conveyed 'resentment' about the gift of motherhood. Matt Walsh, another conservative commentator, went full-on hysterical, characterising Obama as 'just a total raging narcissist'. The absurdity hit fever pitch when her delight at the 'end of her daughters' respective childhoods' was linked to Lindsay Clancy, the woman on trial in the US for fatally strangling her three children. All because she didn't miss mothering 28-year-old Malia and 25-year-old Sasha. In all fairness to her detractors, the US midterm elections are coming up, and many incumbents' re-election prospects are resembling overturned turtles. Attacking a mother for not cradling her 28-year-old daughter to her bosom may just swing the votes of God-fearing Jim-Bob and Mary-Lou from Burnt Corn, Alabama. I, on the other hand, do not hold any sway over our own upcoming election results. It's not as if we vote on the issues over here anyway. This means I can go even further than the former Flotus by stating that the air smells crisper, the sky seems bluer and the water tastes significantly sweeter since I deactivated my 5.45am, 12.35pm, 1.45pm, 3:15pm and 4.55pm alarms, depending on the day of the week. I used to go dizzy, darting around like a sprinkaan on tik between home, school, piano, tennis and soccer. I love everything about my house since these entitled beggars, who are belligerently choosy, vacated the premises A few weeks ago I woke up from an afternoon nap drenched in perspiration from a nightmare involving the lastborn stranded at the Bedfordview Country Club after a tennis game. I required three scoops of ice cream to calm my nerves. (Don't judge me; three shots of bourbon are no longer an option for this wino.) I love everything about my house since these entitled beggars, who are belligerently choosy, vacated the premises. Heck, nowadays I can risk going into other bathrooms in the house without slipping on wet towels or exposing myself to swine flu from the constant microbiological experiments they always seemed to be conducting in there. More importantly, this development is doing wonders for my marriage. Last Thursday I attended one of my daughter's league netball matches at the Wits Diggs Fields Netball Courts. Unlike the fascist days of primary and high school, I was a voluntary spectator. It was, for the most part, a pleasant early Johannesburg evening with minimal social anxieties. It took me years to acclimatise to the reality that girls' netball is a super-competitive sport. Samafuze, my daughter, undergoes a fascinating Diana Prince-to-Wonder Woman transformation when she's on that court. I mention this because in Thursday's game her opposite number was a strong girl who brought MMA energy to the netball court. Things got pretty … uhm, physical out there. I'm happy to report that she won that individual battle even as her team slumped to a pretty comprehensive drubbing. And yet, after the game, I drove home without being subjected to a grumpy teenager in the car complaining about everything from her teammates to the coach or the ref. Just the sheer bliss of driving home in peace, listening to my cheesy Carpenters playlist in peace. One of my mates is turning 58 in a few weeks. Life happened to him, leading to an unfortunate end to his first marriage about a decade ago. He recently signed up for a second bite at it, and his current wife, who is in her late 30s, is expecting their first child around his birthday. Because I am not a pleasant person, for the past eight months I have been rubbing it in that finally, after 30-odd years, I can slide into bed at 2pm on weekdays for an undeserved nap without any school pick-up anxieties. And then I remind him that when he turns 70, he will still have five more years of dealing with a rebellious teenager in high school. If the shoe fits, just call me a total, raging narcissist.